A Brother's Grief
by SpangleBangle
Summary: Mycroft gets the call he had been dreading since Moriarty's release: the call to the next of kin. His brother, mortal after all. Angsty oneshot, contains light Mystrade.


So yeah... Got the DVD of S2 at the weekend and relived the Reichenbach grief. So I thought I'd add to the piles of angst ^^' But from a Mystrade perspective, because there is not enough love for Mystrade. BI

Oneshot, fluff and angst, Mystrade.

Sherlock Holmes (c) Arthur Conan Doyle

BBC Sherlock series (c) Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat

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><p>The call came in early, around half nine in the morning. Mycroft had been awake all night, ever since John's visit, waiting for it. Of course it was coming.<p>

"Mycroft Holmes?" The polite woman on the other end enquired.

"Speaking," He replied woodenly.

"I'm afraid there's been a terrible accident, Mr Holmes," The lady said, sounding genuinely sorry. "I'm sorry to be the one to inform you, but it's about your brother, Sherlock Holmes."

"Is he in some sort of trouble?" Mycroft forced himself to ask. He already knew what she was going to say.

"I'm so sorry, Mr Holmes," The lady said, sighing. "But we need you to come down to Bart's morgue. To… to identify the body. As next of kin. My deepest condolences, sir."

"I'll be right there. Thank you for calling." He didn't wait for her to reply and disconnected the call. He took the time to carefully straighten his tie pin and to pick up his umbrella. Everything must seem normal.

Anthea, who had been waiting for him downstairs, fell into step with him as he left his home, not saying a word. She opened the door for him and he thanked her with a glance.

"You don't have to do this, sir," She said quietly as the expensive car purred through the streets.

"I'm afraid I do," He replied blankly, looking out of the tinted window. "But thank you for your concern."

"I'm sorry, sir," She said, and dared to reach across to him and put her hand on his knee, a breach in etiquette which would have seen anyone else fired. He didn't even look at her, but his lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "I'll cancel your appointments for today."

"There's no need, Anthea," Mycroft said, watching the world pass by the window. "Business as usual."

She frowned but didn't chase the matter for once. She had known Mycroft for several years now, and she could see through his icy façade like thin glass. Seeing the pain in him was almost unbearable, but at the same time she couldn't help but admire his skill in hiding his emotions. A skilled politician indeed.

She waited in the car for him as he stepped into the hospital morgue, frowning in concern. He stepped through the corridors without seeing any of them, and found the owner of the polite voice, dressed in a mortician's gear and a tired outlook. A single glance at her clothes told him she had been called in last-minute, and needed to get back to her young son (smudges of crayon, non-oil based, on her neck; type indicating most likely a non-waterproof brand, easier to wash off, begging the question as to why it had _not_ been washed away. Position on the neck indicating a lack of motor control and close contact, and a lack of time to check appearance. Most likely a small child playing with crayons, probably male from the colour choice, red, his mother called from play by work) before she had to pay the babysitter for overtime (checking her pocket's bulge, indicating a possible mobile phone and/or wallet, nervously checking both the hallway clock and her watch, battered, not fashionable, unable to afford a better one, and biting her lip. No ring on her finger but a pale line where it would have rested; recently divorced – not amicable by the worry-lines on her forehead, most likely expensive – and raising a child on her own. Called in last-minute by work, likely to be a common occurrence in this job, therefore having a babysitter would be necessary).

"Mr Holmes?" She asked as he approached.

He smiled quickly at her, his usual smile without any feeling, just to let her know he was listening. "I'm here to see my brother."

"My condolences, sir," She said again and brought him into the room.

There he was. Brother dear, laid out on a cold metal table covered by a white sheet up to his shoulders. Mortal after all, just another human.

"I appreciate this is hard for you," The mortician said softly. "But I need you to confirm his identity."

Mycroft walked slowly to stand beside his brother's supine form, his umbrella clicking on the floor in time with his well-polished shoes. He surveyed the injuries and without meaning to, took his brother's pulse. His expression did not change when there was no leap in the carotid, no flicker of life.

He brushed that curly fringe out of the closed eyes, ignoring the last few traces of blood on his face. His skull had been dented some in the fall, his cheekbone shattered from the look of it – those sharp cheekbones, sharp enough to cut the ground? – but it was unmistakably his brother. He knew if he were to lift up an eyelid those cold blue-grey eyes would stare lifelessly up at him, accusing. No, that was absurd. The dead couldn't accuse.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," He said softly, letting his hand fall to his side. He swallowed hard and ignored the mortician. "I gave him the tools to do this to you. I'm so sorry. I failed you again."

Sherlock didn't reply, of course. Saying it did not make him feel any better, it did no one any good. It did not absolve him of the blame.

"I can confirm that this is my brother, Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft said to the mortician, and without looking back he walked out of the cold room of the dead.

The door to the car opened as he approached and he smoothly sat in its impersonal leather embrace. "Take him home," Anthea instructed the driver.

"No, take me back to the club," Mycroft said. "I have work to do."

"Sir," Anthea said firmly, "I am taking you home. And if I need to, I'll instruct Roberts not to drive you anywhere until morning."

He sighed heavily, unwilling to fight with her. "Alright. Take me home."

"Very good, sir," Roberts, the driver, said calmly, keeping his course. He had never been driving to the club. Mycroft couldn't even feel irritated.

"Shall I call anyone, sir?" Anthea asked, walking him to his door. "Is there anything I can do? Call the papers, tell them not to print it?"

"No," Mycroft said, shaking his head. His eyes looked a little unfocussed. "Thank you, Anthea. Have the night off. Go to a party or whatever it is you do on your nights off. Enjoy yourself."

"Thank you, sir," She smiled, letting the polite fiction stand. She would go to a party the day the seven Hells froze over. She was going back to work, to try and lessen the damage so that in the morning he wouldn't have to wake up to an outrageous, slanderous headline. She nodded and stepped back into the car, leaving him alone.

He wandered through his grand townhouse, disconnected from everything. The only thing that held any attraction for him, that could hold his gaze right then, was the crystal decanter of brandy on his living room sideboard. He poured himself a generous glass and got out his phone, dialling the one person who could distract him.

Lestrade was still trying to process the news. It didn't seem possible that Sherlock was dead. The man who had cheated the odds so many times… he couldn't have jumped. He couldn't. He wasn't that sort of person.

Or at least Lestrade had thought so. He had to remind himself that he had barely known Sherlock, despite the years they had spent looking over cases together. The man hadn't even known Lestrade's first name until just recently. He sighed and took another bite of his breakfast bagel, closing the manila folders. It would do no good to pore over all those improbable cases, examine the angles all over again, wonder if Sherlock really had fabricated them all.

He didn't want to believe it. Sherlock had by no means been normal, and was a self-confessed sociopath, but he wasn't… he wasn't Moriarty. He hadn't invented the villain, Lestrade was sure. Who had vanished off the face of the earth, apparently. Preliminary reports had shown a pool of blood on the rooftop, complete with a few brain splatters, and no body and no signs of one being removed. The DNA hadn't been in the database, and there was no evidence as to who had been up there with Sherlock. Except for intuition. Lestrade had that persistent gut-feeling that Moriarty had engineered the whole thing, orchestrated Sherlock's fall from grace and apparent suicide. That pool of blood could be Moriarty's, if only they had a sample to compare it against.

His phone rang, startling him. No one usually called him on his mobile, except…

"Oh Christ," Lestrade said quietly, and picked up. "Mycroft, I'm so sorry, I should have called earlier…"

"I need you," Mycroft said just above a whisper, his voice unsteady. "I… I need to see you. Please."

"Okay, okay," Lestrade said gently, getting up and grabbing his coat. "I'm on my way, Mycroft. Are you at the club?"

"There… there should be a driver waiting for you." It sounded as if Mycroft was having difficulty getting the words out right.

When Lestrade arrived at the townhouse he wasted no time, running up the stairs and calling out for Mycroft.

"In here," Mycroft replied as Lestrade passed the room's door. "Coat."

Lestrade had to marvel at the man's obsessive need for order. His brother was dead, he was clearly distraught by the news even if his face belied it, and still he insisted that Lestrade take off his coat before sitting down. Manners were all-important to the elder Holmes. For good measure Lestrade took off his shoes as well and left them outside the living room door with his coat on the waiting hat stand.

Mycroft was sitting on his sofa – chaise longue, really – peering into a half-empty balloon glass. Anyone who didn't know him would say he was dressed as impeccably as ever, but Lestrade knew this man very well, and he had spent a considerable amount of time listening to both Holmes brothers expanding in great detail about observation.

Mycroft's tie was slightly off centre, and his top button was undone. His waistcoat lay draped carelessly over the arm of a chair, not neatly folded. It had clearly just been shrugged off and no attention paid to it. Mycroft usually sat leaned back with his legs crossed, and now he sat forward, elbows planted on his knees, head bowed. He looked as dejected as Lestrade had ever seen him. The back of his shirt was a little creased. Had he slept at all?

Mycroft glanced at the detective as he sat down, then back into the brandy glass. "Thank you," He said quietly. "Would you care for some.. some brandy?"

"No, thanks," Lestrade replied. He hesitated a moment. "How are you holding up?"

"As well as might be expected," Mycroft said, his voice a little wooden. He stared blankly into space. "You know what Moriarty calls me? The Ice-Man."

"Shows what he knows," Lestrade replied with an attempt at humour. "I know you can be very warm, very passionate, when you're not at work." He gently placed his hand on Mycroft's back, offering some comfort.

Mycroft smiled blankly. "Bless you, Gregory."

They sat for a few minutes in silence, Lestrade keeping his hand on Mycroft's back. He knew the politician appreciated it, even if he couldn't acknowledge it.

"He wasn't a fraud," Mycroft said suddenly, taking a gulp of his brandy.

"I know," Lestrade said softly.

"Even as a child he was like that, always deducting," Mycroft continued as if Lestrade hadn't spoken. "He could never curb his tongue, either. The only time he could act was when he was playing dress-up, practising his disguises. You can't act from birth your whole life. He was no fraud, no matter what the papers will say."

"His friends know the truth, Mycroft," Lestrade said comfortingly. "The press, the public, they can think what they want. They can stuff those accusations right up their behinds. We know the truth."

"It's my fault he's dead."

"No, Mycroft, it's not," Lestrade said quickly, putting his arm around the man's shoulders. "It's Moriarty, I know it's him. He did this."

"Jim Moriarty could never have been able to discredit him if I hadn't given him the information," Mycroft whispered, closing his eyes. "He could never have manoeuvred Sherlock into… into…" He choked off the end of his sentence.

"Mycroft, you can't blame yourself," Lestrade assured him, cupping his cheek and forcing him to look up. "Moriarty's the one to blame, _he's_ the one who did this."

"I should have told Sherlock," Mycroft whispered, shaking his head. "I should have _told_ him. Should have…"

"Don't, Mycroft," Lestrade said painfully. "If there's one thing I know from my work, it's that you have to accept what happened and not go back over all those 'what ifs', all those 'should haves'."

"It's true we hadn't been getting along fabulously well recently," Mycroft said. It was like walking to a wall sometimes, Lestrade thought. "We had grown apart. I tried in the beginning, to get him to come home and see Mummy every so often, but… he resented me too much. Too much history from our childhood. I wasn't happy with him, but…" Mycroft covered his eyes with one hand and whispered brokenly, "But I never wanted to have to identify my baby brother's body."

Mycroft's shoulders shook a little and a few tears fell from between his fingers. Lestrade put his arms around Mycroft and held him into his chest, unable to do anything to comfort him except hold him. He held Mycroft as he quietly wept, stroking his hand slowly up and down Mycroft's back, taking care not to ruffle his silk shirt. Mycroft, for once, didn't fight the loss of control and leaned into the detective like a small child, sobbing under his breath.

Lestrade held the man who had become so dear to him and had never felt do powerless in his life. He was a DI, for heaven's sake. He should be able to _do_ something, get someone on the case, find Moriarty and bring him to justice for Sherlock's death and Mycroft's pain. He glanced at his empty ring-finger, hand on Mycroft's back. He didn't regret the painful divorce, the accusations of adultery on both sides, having to own up to his affair with Mycroft. He only regretted that the most he could do to help his partner was to let him cry.

After some time Mycroft's tears subsided and he slumped tiredly against Lestrade, unmanned and undone. Lestrade kept soothingly rubbing up and down his back, saying nothing.

"I do hope he's alive somewhere," Mycroft said, eyes still closed. "There are drugs to repress a heartbeat, you know. To give one the appearance of death. I hope he managed to escape."

"But you saw his body," Lestrade said as gently as he could. "And, well… he did fall over seventy feet. I don't see how it's possible, Mycroft, I'm sorry."

"I know," Mycroft replied in a defeated voice. "I know. But if he is alive, somehow, I know he'd be laughing at me. For grieving."

Lestrade didn't know what to say.

"'They all care so much', I said to him when we found Miss Adler's falsified corpse. 'Caring is not an advantage', I said. He would throw those words back at me, I know it."

"Try not to think about it, Mycroft," Lestrade said helplessly.

Mycroft smiled humourlessly. "I'm a Holmes, Gregory. That's all we do. Do you know why I wear this ring?"

Lestrade shook his head.

"It was my father's ring. He gave it to me one day, saying it was to remember my duty. To queen, country and family. He charged me to look after Sherlock."

Lestrade gently covered Mycroft's ringed hand with his own. "I'm so sorry, Mycroft. Is there anything I can do, anything I can get you, to help?"

"No, thank you."

"Maybe you should try and get some sleep."

"It's only ten in the morning, Greg. Don't be absurd."

"You're also drinking at ten in the morning. It'll do you some good," Lestrade insisted gently. "Please, Mycroft. You look like you've been up all night."

"Describe it."

Lestrade smiled a little. "Alright, fine. Your shirt's rumpled at the back, like you've been sitting in the same position for a long time. Your trousers are a little creased as well. And I know you, if you see any creases in your clothing you change immediately, and wouldn't dream of wearing creased clothes fresh from bed. So that would suggest that you didn't bother sleeping last night, you just stayed in your chair. You've got bags around your eyes, and you only call me Greg when you're tired."

"Nothing else?" Mycroft asked in a less-dead tone of voice. Lestrade strained his mind, knowing that the distraction was helping.

"Uh… your shoe laces are a little loose, like you've been wearing them all day. But the laces are still kinked, so… you haven't taken them off and put them back on again after a night's rest, they've stayed on your feet all night."

"Very good, Greg." Mycroft said, squeezing his fingers. "You're learning well."

"Thanks. Seriously, Mycroft, get some sleep."

Mycroft shook his head. "I won't be able to. Let's just stay here."

"No, Mycroft, I'm taking you to bed." Lestrade said firmly and pulled him to his feet. "Come on now."

"Normally I'd love for you to take me to bed," Mycroft said with a smile, unresisting and allowing himself to be led by the hand into his bedroom.

Lestrade helped him undress and dress again in his blue silk pyjamas, as Mycroft seemed a little disconnected from his surroundings still and spent a few minutes trying to pull his trousers on by the feet rather than the waist until Lestrade noticed. Normally Mycroft was uncomfortable with Lestrade undressing him – he always had to do it himself – from some sort of combination of a power complex and some residual body-image issues from his dieting; he was self-conscious about his slight belly. But he didn't make any comment this time.

Lestrade tucked him into bed. "Can I get you anything?"

"An aspirin would be lovely," Mycroft said tiredly, settling under the covers. He really was very tired, perhaps a quick nap wouldn't do any harm.

Lestrade went into his en-suite bathroom and raided the cupboards, finding a packet of aspirin – and a bottle of sleeping pills that looked identical to the aspirin. He hesitated for only a second and took two of the sleeping pills instead.

Mycroft took one look at the pills on Lestrade's hand and raised an eyebrow. "Sleeping pills, Greg?"

Lestrade didn't apologise. Mycroft met his firm gaze and swallowed them without another word, closing his eyes and pulling the covers up around his neck. Lestrade sat beside the bed, watching his partner as he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Half an hour later there was a discreet knock on the door and Anthea popped her head around. "Ah, good morning Detective Inspector."

"Morning. Was is it today?"

"Well… Mycroft likes 'Anthea', and you're close to him, so you can keep calling me Anthea. Gregory." She smiled pleasantly. Lestrade resisted the urge to blush; she had walked in on them often enough. "Is he asleep?"

"Yeah," Lestrade replied.

"Good," Anthea said, breathing a sigh of relief. "I'm glad you came over, I was worried about him."

"He said he needed me, so…" Lestrade mumbled, looking down at Mycroft's sleeping face.

Anthea smiled gently. "Oh, by the way, I thought you should know your team's looking for you. You're needed in work."

Lestrade didn't bother questioning how she knew that – Mycroft tended to keep tabs on him somehow, so of course Anthea, his right-hand woman, would have similar knowledge. He sighed and kissed Mycroft's forehead, smoothing his hand over the worry-lines.

"I'll be back later, after work," He said. "Tell him that when he wakes up, yeah?"

"Of course. Have a good day, Gregory."

"You too," Lestrade smiled, and quietly left the townhouse. A car outside took him to his office.

He sighed and headed into the conference room, knowing that the media was waiting there for an official statement on Sherlock's death. It was going to be a hellish mess, he knew. Before heading into the room, he paused to text Anthea, _Text me when he's about to wake up, I'll come round as soon after as possible._

She texted back within a few seconds. _Of course. He'll want you to be there when he wakes up._

He replied, much slower, _I'll be there. _

Mycroft was normally so good at keeping his distance, and keeping cool and rational in his complicated and demanding job. Normally he would object to being watched over and taken care of. But he wasn't a politician today and his ice-mask had cracked. He was simply a grieving brother, and Lestrade would do anything he could to help him.

And he would put every ounce of energy he had into finding Moriarty and making him pay for Sherlock's death, and most especially for Mycroft's grief.

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><p>FFFFFUUUUU- why do I do this to myself? OTL<p>

Hope you enjoyed (?), if you'd take a moment to review I'd really appreciate it.

*Sigh* Back to revision. FML


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